Portrait of a Life
by trascendenza
Summary: Every ending births a beginning, every tragedy, hope.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.

**Author's Note:** I think this piece marks the end of my fanfiction writing career. I really tried to crawl inside the skin of the original novella canon and wear it for a few days, so I hope I was at least somewhat successful.

Two things I recommend:

- Don't read this if you haven't read the novella.

- Re-read the short story if you are able (there are eight direct references to the novella and a few indirect).

**Feedback:** Please! I am dying for feedback on this piece. I poured my heart into this (not to mention a lot of time ;). Here's me begging on my knees. Whether it's good or bad, I just want to know what readers thought of this. And I would love to discuss interpretations in relation to the original, as well.

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Watching Ennis del Mar walk through a crowd was like looking at a shard of glass among grains of sand. The fractured piece was not noticeable to the casual observer, hiding easily among the smooth, uniform grains, but if the light hit it just right, a sudden glint would reveal its position, and when touched, it cut deep. Ennis, closed tight, made his way to the bar, did not meet the eyes of those he passed, hating this day of the year, fighting to make it to the end. He paid for hard liquor with the last of his money, used the first three shots to drown out images of metal spoon handles and the next three to keep them away. The bartender, a burly man with thinning brown hair and cigarette-stained teeth, served Ennis rapidly, knowing a good customer when he saw one. He gave up on conversation after receiving a few inchoate grunts, noticing the downcast eyes, the slight tremors in the man's fingers.

Ennis slowed down a bit later in the evening, asked for their cheapest beer and after waiting a few minutes, looked over at the bartender to see what was causing the delay. The bartender cleaned a glass as a pretense, watched a group of men in the back warily, smoky haze rising off them like formless resentment, bitter disappointment and ferocity searing their faces, heated by drink and recent factory lay-offs. They scoped the bar, a pack of predators looking for easy prey. Ennis shrunk in; he was too big for the room, too visible, overly conscious of what had brought him here in the first place, and downed the rest of his drink, hoping the burn would last him on the way home. He felt his sharp edges, his transparent longing. The wind raged outside, banging the thin shutters in a tattoo that might have been a heartbeat.

His feet made to leave, but as he heard the sound of a lonely death on the wind, Ennis saw himself, poised on the brink and laid bare, a man built on his mistakes and misdirected dreams, guided by a nameless dread and defined by his limits. His breath hitched. He was pulled back to that moment when he had found his importance, to that uncalled for inspiration that had guided him into the dusty closet to find the accumulated contentment of summer days manifest in bloodied, well-worn fabric. The static hum of the bar filtering back into his consciousness, Ennis loosed his clenched fists, eased the breath from his lungs, squared his shoulders, and stood tall. His smile would have broken an angel's heart.

And maybe, he thought, it's time to do something right.

Being a man to run full-throttle on all roads, he did what he had to immediately, no hesitation. In the dim alleyway, the men yelled loud and fierce to cover the sound of his laughter, and he saw his father swinging down on him, saw Jack trying to staunch his bleeding, felt his brother kick into his side with a vehemence Ennis remembered well. It always came back around. He tasted blood, suffused with caustic rapture, a gratified surrender. The wind eased down, dwindling down to a whisper of release. A man can only fear something for so long before it becomes the only thing he desires.

The men walked away trembling with more than anger, shaken by this man who was supposed to be a victim, but was something more, something untouchable, wild and glorious. Bile rose in their throats, covered with hollow boasts and an illusory sense of triumph and they congratulated each other for taking down this strange stranger, though he had not thrown a single punch. A cold mountain wind dried Ennis's brow, brought him the scent of the lodgepole pines, the faint smell of sweat and smoke and tears.

"I am, Jack—" he said, a promise made and finally kept. He looked to the night, unfocused his eyes, saw another time, a sky so blue he might drown in it, and let it take him. The wind calmed, became silent. If you can't fix it, you've got to stand it; and if you can't stand it, you've got to let go.


End file.
